Coyote Sisters
by Guy C. Brownlee
Summary: A wild and whimsical sf western/adventure with a strong anime influence. Think of the Dirty Pair mixed with The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. Please read and review.
1. Default Chapter Title

**COYOTE SISTERS:**

**THE ADVENTURES OF LARKSPUR AND CALICO**

By: Guy C. Brownlee

**PART ONE: ESPERADOS**

_Taken from the journals of professor Ebenezer Henway, AKA "Doc Rooster" M.D.; D.D.S.; P.H.D.; historian; profound intellect; gadgeteer._

Now, before I commence on this trite and self-indulgent narrative, I wish to defer to the collected wisdom of the Random House Dictionary of the English language, 3rd nanotext edition, wherein it reads on the following subject:

**railhead** : (rayl`hed)/noun:1. the farthest point to which rails have been laid in a railroad under construction 2. a depot at which supplies are unloaded to be distributed or forwarded by other means.

Just so you'd know, the planet Railhead was so named as it was the first truly habitable Earth-like world man and womankind found on its awkward rush outward into the great unknown.

Lush green and crystal blue, with fresh, clean air and wide open spaces ; it was God's country. No need for the overcrowded urban blight of environmental domes, or the unstable, unpredictable snail-slow process of terraforming.

It was the end of the line, the farthest point; a dream come true for many, many tired and lonesome travelers.

It was the start of a new and brighter future.

We were home.

Railhead.

It was truly the birth of interstellar exploration, the pioneer days. Back then, great, ponderous nuclear engines punched ships into the virgin heavens -- vessels that more resembled the oversized torpedoes that shot clowns out of circus cannons than any pulp video luxury yacht (kind of appropriate, though, when you think about it).

Technology was breaking a sweat just to keep up with an ever expanding frontier, and anything even remotely resembling a fold drive was at least a granny's age off - a hundred years or better. So each and every last colony that was established had to be pretty damned self-sufficient as the next ship was probably going to take its own sweet time. Thus, given the right tools, and utilizing the raw materials at hand, folks set about staking out and homesteading the place, carving out a civilization that was more Roy Rogers than Buck Rogers.

"Roughing it," I believe it was called.

Next up, livestock and wildlife from back home was introduced into the planet's ecostructure without much of a fuss - although some accidental crossbreeding with some of the indigenous fauna yielded some mighty interesting results.

Everywhere, everyday, old ways were rediscovered and put into practical application. Methods that were once thought to be nothing but such old wives' tales brought new respect for those matronly spouses.

Anyone could run a computer, just about as many could fix one, but if you were a blacksmith or a carpenter, you were considered near a god. It was a queer juxtaposition of hand-me-down hi-tech and born-again Industrial Revolution.

Orbital satellites would map out and guide massive, cyberlinked, steamdriven ironhorses, each rigged with miles of construction platforms that would help set up colonies and townships, as well as automatically set down tracks as they rolled. 

Oversized diamond-tipped lasers would be widely used in coal or mineral mining operations, but buckshot from a sawed-off, or six silver projectiles from a Colt 45, would still be more likely used to settle unfriendly disputes.

It was not too much longer, however, before the exchange of goods and services flowed not just between town to town, but 'twixt Railhead and the other colonized worlds of the systems. As a result, the world's first bona fide starport was built -- "San Laredo" by name. It was soon followed by a vast metropolitan sprawl, a true hub of culture and commerce, spreading out and up from the rolling plains like kudzu on the vine.

It wasn't utopia, with its neon-splashed casinos, speak-easies, and brothels, but it was bigger than life. Just like Railhead. Just like Larkspur and Calico.

* * *

Hidden away in one of the more disreputable, downright squalid reaches of downtown San Laredo, at an intersection where the sun barely touched the cobblestone streets, and the moon was felt more often than seen, was a curious establishment by the name of "The Tequila Mockingbird."

A dance hall and melodeon wildly popular with the young and disaffected, it had an atmosphere that could only be described as "gothic cowpunk," with its mixture of southwestern early American and European Victorian decor, faux Anglo-Celtic religious icons, faux AmerIndian religious icons, strobe lights, blacklights, and neon.

Think Louis L'amour meets Anne Rice.

And its clientele were even more spectacularly peculiar, reaching dizzying heights of sartorial variations on a theme. Indeed, it is doubtful that any more creative uses for the colors of black could have been found: black stetsons; black dragonskin boots; black leather longcoats; and lipstick, worn by both sexes, to various degrees of pretentiousness. All offset by the occasional silver ankh bolo tie or Eye of Horus earring. You know, the usual.

But, admittedly, the music, piped in or played live, was anything but the usual. Pure powercord rock and roll that is, hard-edged and serrated, and infectious as all-get-out. Especially when Ms. Nellie Bliss sashayed up to the mike.

On that particular night, the room was packed denser than a herd of colonists in a dropship, the heady aroma of angst and tearose filling the gaps between writhing human forms. They were ready, each and everyone -- some since the wee early hours of the previous morning; others as if all of their life -- for this very concert; staked like cordwood up, around, and down several city blocks. They were here to party, dammit, root hog or die.

Meanwhile, somewhere backstage, in a dank grey dressing room with the suspicious ambience of early maintenance closet, Ms. Bliss, the proposed catalyst for such a potential mass epiphany, was leading her star guitarist into a spirited dialogue over personal aesthetics:

"Think this top shows off enough cleavage?"

Typical Nell, absently leaning over to better inspect her decoutage in the mirror.

"Cleavage, Mien Kampf? What cleavage?"

Typical Pony, haughty and oblivious, studiously applying blush to her cheeks. 

Nell was incredulous. "Excuse me, Helen Keller, but what do you call these?!" 

To this, Pony's eyes grew wide in mock doe innocence, as her voice took on a singsong quality. "A really great sternum? A push-up bra and an almost Pollyana sense of optimism?"

There was a knock on the door; a disembodied voice, male, announced, "Ladies, ten minutes."

Standing there before the floor to ceiling-lighted mirror (standing because there were no chairs, no dressers either, only an overhead clothes rack), Nellie Bliss and Pony Nokidomo appraised themselves and each other with a critical eye. As the saying goes, they had certainly dressed the part:

Nellie, after numerous paradigm shifts in wardrobe, was resplendent in a rose-colored, tie-died body stocking, a black tuxedo half-jacket, thigh-high stiletto boots and fingerless leather gloves. Pony, meanwhile, was all decked out in a blue-violet swashirt, a black, brocade vest, crushed velvet tights, and stiletto half-boots. Her hair was set about her face in a ragamop fashion, playfully bouncing and swinging with even the slightest movement.

Nell made a face like she had just sipped from a carafe of pickle juice, her nose all crinkled up -- "Tarnation, Pony! You're not gonna wear that, are you?!"

Pony was incredulous. "And just what is wrong with this ensemble?"

"You look like a Sears and Roebuck catalogue just threw up all over you!" 

"_WHAT_?!"

Suddenly, grooming utensils flew like shuriken.

Then came another knock on the door -- "Five minutes!"

Well sir, it was getting nigh-on impossible to be complacent about that night's performance, as the sounds and spirit of the gathering horde started shoving its way under the dressing room door and into the collective worries of our two young heroines.

The joint was hotter than a den of minks and it was damned intimidating, one of those rare moments that made the girls fret over whether they could still back the hype. 

It was time for "the lab test."

While each facing the mirror, Pony would pantomime her reply as Nell ticked off an item on the fingers of her right hand -- a ritual preshow inventory, so designed to bolster confidence.

"Youth?"

- Wide-eyed innocence, small pout, dimples.

"Exuberance?"

- Chin out, shoulders back, full salute.

"Charm?"

- Big smile, cocked eyebrow, swivel of hips.

"Moxie?"

- Sly wink, thumbs up, flex of muscles. 

"Talent?"

- Blank stare, head tilted to one side. "Talent?" 

Nell cracked a wry grin -- "Yeah, you're right. We'll fake that part..."

Pony was almost successful at keeping a straight face -- "It's always worked before..."

"Start now and we'll confuse people!"

"Continuity! That's the ticket!"

As if on cue, one last knock came to the door -- "Showtime!" 

And it was, indeed:

In an instant, like night unto day, the room verily exploded with energy, brilliant, dazzling, and joyous, transforming all within. It was like Mardi Gras, New Year's, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one, with sweet Nell supplying the fireworks.

Foot and spotlights danced, guitars wailed, and a shower of gold and silver glitter filled the air, released from offstage in gold lame pouches, and kept aloft by two huge floor fans, pointed angelside.

With the force of a steel avalanche, Nell and Pony first tore into a lethal power metal version of the recent radio-ruining hit, "Lawless."

_I'm not what you'd call proper_

_No apparent sense of shame_

_More than willing to be ruthless_

_In this heart as hostage game_

__

__

_You could say that I'm a wildchild_

_Just some misfit crazy dame_

_More than ready to be conquered_

_But never to be tamed_

__

__

_I'm reckless, insatiable_

_I'm out to steal your heart_

__

_I'm breathless, unrelenting_

_I'll blow your mind apart._

__

_Stand and deliver!_

_Your body and your soul _

__

_I'm lawless, armed and dangerous_

_Your Venus on parole _

_I'm Lawless._

Someone once wrote that Nell "had a voice as coarse as sandpaper and as sweet as cotton candy; a voice built for chainsaw ballads and switchblade seduction."

Sounds about right.

Now it was sometime between the third and fifth song that Nellie noticed that a young fellow of her and Pony's acquaintance was sitting in the audience -- Chas. Rifleman, "Chuck" to his friends, police deputy, Precinct One, incognito, stalwart friend and informant to Larkspur and Calico... and head over heels sweet on a "certain" Ms. Bliss. 

With his shoulder-length, sun-bleached hair, heart-shaped baby face and crystal blue eyes, Nell entertained a few thoughts about Chuck as well, but she had too much respect for him as a person and as a friend to ever use him as some boytoy. And at the height of both of her careers, she was also not about to go and settle down with anyone. As if!

Still, she thought, he_ was_ adorable, just sitting there all childlike, his face beaming rosily up at her, hanging on to every word and every note of each song.

Well, the girl simply couldn't help herself.

The next song, "Stiletto Kiss," she played up as a real old-fashioned torcher, singling him out, slinking over and purring all over him, sitting in his lap, lightly running her hand through his hair, playfully chucking his chin. It was hard to tell who was enjoying her performance more -- Nell or Chuck.

And no, not even he knew Nell and Pony's secret identities.

And the boy was far from Dummyville, having formed and maintained a network of fellow informants and aides inside the precinct and out on the streets, all in support of our heroic duo, all under the collective noses of his superiors (one Chief of Police Theodore Vanderbelt in particular). And he certainly had the gumption as well, for if he was ever caught, it would have automatically called for not just his dismissal, but for his court martial, no less.

The funny thing is, nobody _else_ ever caught on to the girls, either. With only passing, theatrical attempts to hide height, hair color, or nationality, the unsuspecting public at large seemed to remain so thoroughly distracted as to never draw similarities between their popular icons. Nobody, not their friends, family, fans, law officials, roadies, personal managers, booking agents, or publicists knew -- not once -- that the petite yet curvy Nellie and the voluptuous Pony were also the heroic _LARKSPUR_ and _CALICO_. 

(In the words of the great Arnie Saknussemm, "Damn, it's dark in here...") 

Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, Nellie spotted a young uniformed police officer urgently working his way through from the back of the crowd -- she marveled briefly that the kid didn't start a riot -- and her heart sank. Official business, no mistake. Something was going down. Chuck must have caught her line of sight, because he quickly turned to face the approaching officer. His face went ash white; he had known instantly what this was all about.

Meanwhile, Nell surreptitiously extracted herself from the young deputy's lap and slinked back onstage to finish the number, carefully keeping a trained eye on the exchange between the two officers. She had clearly read their lips and just about froze, dead still, onstage.

Four words were all it took. Four words:

The _Clementine_ was down.

* * *

They were too late.

Volcanic clouds of black and rust billowed forth from the scarred and blasted husk that was the freight locomotive, the _Clementine_. Embers flew like fairylights as a myriad of blue electric discharges swathed the derailed leviathan in a lethal glow. Its mighty steam whistle wailed across the open plains unabated, sad and eerie, like the lonely deathcry of some ancient sandbanshee, proclaiming its own demise. 

All about, carnage and the confused stragglers of livestock, mostly cattle, spread out over the barren landscape; twisted black iron and shattered redwood testimonials to an unnatural cataclysm. This was no accident. 

The idle downshifted to just below earthquake, Larkspur slowly coasted her four cylinder, candy apple dirthog to a stop as she took in the grim spectacle before her. No sign of human life could be found, but the smell of pungent, raw fear still hung heavily in the air

. "Tarnation, not again. What the _Sam Hain's_ going on here?"

Calico rose from the sidecar and stretched, catlike. "I don't know. Why don't we find out?"

To the east, a faint sliver of orange hue peaked just over the horizon. Soon it would be dawn.

"Wait here..."

Solemnly approaching the wreckage, Calico gestured before her, sweeping her right arm in a crescent motion, then flicked her wrist, palm out. Instantly, the steam whistle silenced and the blue arcs dissipated.

Larkspur had always downright hated that -- _just showing off_, she would say, indignant-like. Calico knew she was just jealous. 

You see, although born of Japanese descent, Calico -- AKA Ms. Pony Nokidomo --- had spent much of her adult youth in sabbatical with the Svaha, a mighty Indian nation founded on Railhead and comprised of the descendants of the greatest tribes of the entire American continent of old Earth. She learned the ways of the warrior, the shaman magics, walking the path -- rejecting the corporate future her family had so firmly planned for her.

Larkspur silenced the twin engines to her beloved Harlequin, and in one fluid motion, kicked out the stand, swung from her seat and eased her swivel barrel rifle from its holster strapped across her back. Thumbing up her riding goggles from her already masked features, she watched after her companion with a mixture of exasperation and concern. "Be careful, hon."

Indeed, she and Calico were both masked, costumed, that is, in disguises meant to obscure their true identities. For the waifish Larkspur, that meant obscuring her well-known button nose, crystal blue cat's eyes, and freshly-scrubbed heart-shaped face, with a long black silk scarf with cut-out eye slits, tied securely under her equally silky page cut, dirty blonde tresses, a brief train protecting the back of her neck from the harsh Railhead sun. Only her sweet smile, with its pronounced canines and slight overbite, remained undisguisable. Boy howdy.

As for the exotic Calico, her "mask" would be even more dramatic, and more daring -- her own face. Combining the ancient Japanese theatrical make-up techniques -- "kabuki" by name -- with the Blackfoot Appalachian snow mountain camouflage traditions, Calico would cover her elegant, high cheekboned features with a cake-white powder, together with a solid black band painted across her golden brown, almond-shaped eyes, temple to temple. Her signature jetblack hurricane-wild mane was adorned with a bouquet of snowdove feathers and pulled back tight over her head into a ponytail that would flair out again at the crown, looking for all the world like blackened sagebrush caught in a barbed wire and flying in the wind.

Almost caressing it, Calico gently, ever so gently, touched the hull of the train, then pressed her forehead to the ironplate and concentrated.

And suddenly there it was, as clear as the here and now, the visions playing back right there over reality, like a monochrome filter over a color lens; a theater of the mind, no truer was...

* * *

_Fade from white..._

The train plunged headlong into the night. Mountain pass blurred into forest range blurred into open plain as the pastel yellow of the moons Maverick and Paladin cast a surreal, ghostly pallor over the land, somehow emphasizing an otherwise undiscernible alienness to the terrain.

Standing bathed in the nocturnal glow, perched stoically atop the open bed of the _Clementine's_ massive coal car, was a man whose skin was as nightblack, and whose mass and frame could be likened to the great ironhorse itself.

He was balding, with granite grey dredlocks and fuller brush beard, his jaw, his lips, his nose, his forehead all blunt like a cinder block. His eyes were deep-set and hawklike, black and proud under thick brows. Beneath a patchwork inverness of animal skins, he wore the dark vestments of a holy man, his snowwhite round collar proudly starched and unstained. Tucked under his right arm was a massive tome of Christian writ; in his left hand, a twelve-gauge sawed-off. 

His name was Otis Van Briggs; his profession, perhaps Railhead's greatest bounty hunter; his passion, the sweet and righteous word of God. 

The tabloids had given him another name: he was the Sierra Padre.

Behind and below him, in the hold of the crewcars and throughout the line, a battle was being raged; sounds of automatic gunfire, barked orders, small explosions, cries and screams, all reached the ears of the Padre as if from a great distance, swallowed up by the rush of wind and the rhythmic thunder of the rail rolling below; it was a firefight of Biblical intensity between the hardsuited armored guard of Pinkerton's finest, and one-half of the single most dangerous criminal teams then alive.

And there before the Padre, the other half. Before him and above, floating literally in thin air, laughing the wicked, merry laugh of an arrogant young godling; of a predator taunting his prey.

His hair was spun gold, long and full, flying wildly about in the slipstream; artfully framing a chiseled face of high cheekbones and smoldering jade-green cat's eyes. He was long and lean, and framed into a midnight blue frock coat, tailored suit, and dragonskin boots.

No guns. He didn't need them.

His name was Yellowjack Dupree, and he was as beautiful and as deadly as his sister, Ms. Belladonna. Twisted, ruthless, and psychotic, they possessed the keen intellect of master criminals, and the demonically lethal power of Level 10 psionics.

"Psionics" -- the ultimate power of mind over matter, the highest form of psychic phenomenon. Simply put, it is the ability to bend the very laws of physics by sheer will. And the Dupree twins had it, in spades.

Still and still, young Yellowjack just stood there, levitating, as if fixed in space by an unseen hand, looming overhead and smiling smugly, effortlessly keeping up with the train.

The Padre was having none of it. "Nick trick, Peter Pan, but kinya pull a rabbit out of a hat? Pat yer head and chew gum?" Briggs taunted, to no expected reply. He casually began loading shells into his shotgun. "Whydja do it, boy? Why attack all those locos and abduct their crews? You got some sort of vendetta against the rail commission, boy? The Mitcherooney Company? Pappy Dupree never got Baby Jackie a choo-choo?" 

Still nothing. _What was he paying his writers for, anyway_? thought the Padre. 

Then -- "You don't actually think you can do me any real damage, do you, you old fool? Just you? With that poptoy?" If arrogance had volume, Yellowjack was deafening, his smirk alone the sound of nails on a chalkboard. "Or do you think your God's going to fall out of Heaven to help you?"

"I already have his help, boy," replied the Padre, his expression and tone suddenly flat. "He gave me a brain..."

With that, Otis Van Briggs simply aimed his sawed-off straight overhead and fired. 

Now, imagine a bee sting direct to the inner ear; the split-second advanced warning of a high-pitched buzz, angry and vengeful; followed by a needle-thin lightning strike of steel-cold pain -- a pain so abrupt, so intense, that your very perception of reality is defined by it. Ouch, huh? 

That, in a pinch, is what an "E.M. Pulse Twelve Aught" -- a sort of bullet-sized grenade -- does. Developed by the German military back on Old Earth, its primary function in combat was to narrowcast scramble the system of anything electronic within close range, the "E.M." standing for "Electromagnetic."

And apparently, it had its uses against big-time psychokinetics, as well.

And like a grenade, it did not have to impact with its target to do its job -- the Padre never even had to aim his shotgun anywhere near Yellowjack, as the projectile arched high into the night and simply went off, packing a sonic wallop that sent the young dandy doubling over headfirst into the coal, dropping like a one-man landslide.

Out cold. 

Just like that.

Working quickly, Otis pulled out a plastic-wrapped syringe from an old velvet pouch, and a vial of something with a long, Latin-sounding name basically meaning "Rip Van Winkle." He applied it to Yellowjack's right arm, then proceeded to cuff the rogue's hands behind his back

Now, it has been suggested that the Duprees had a bond that was downright Freudian in nature, but that could all be nothing more than heresy, gossip to add an extra blemish to their already villainous reputation. 

What this all boils down to is that the Padre, in his zeal to bag Mr. Dupree, neglected to notice the sudden quiet from the aforementioned battlefrought freight and crewcars, or the distinct lack of any violent swaying and lurching that had resulted from said such. Otis had forgotten about Ms. Belladonna Dupree. Completely.

You don't forget about Belladonna.

"JACK-EEE!"

It's kind of like forgetting not to sit on a cactus, actually.

"Oh, woe! _Woe_! What have ye dun t'me poor Jack?!"

Well, sir, ol' Otis knew he was in for it, majorly, and he mentally cursed himself in the head for his lack of diligence.

Then she did it for him, harder. 

In an instant, the black coals beneath the Padre's feet morphed and coalesced into a massive, blunt-edged spike, diamond-hard, hooking him with an uppercut that sent him flying backwards. Scrambling to his feet, Otis -- absently checking his jaw, amazed to find he still had one -- found himself defiantly staring down the most beautiful killer Railhead ever knew.

She rose like an angry phoenix reborn, ready to smite butt and take names. Impossibly emerald cat's eyes shone fiercely like green suns, set in a face of pure alabaster, a fine and perfect match to her brother's. Her luxurious copper-red tresses billowed wildly like Botticelli in a hurricane. Her outfit was also a match for her brother's, but peach in color and, despite its gentlemanly cut, was unable to hide the build of its wearer. 

The very air crackled with power, the scent of phosphorus and brimstone, thick and heavy, as light radiated from her, surrounded and enveloped her. Hot white, blinding, pure. The color of vengeance.

But Otis was not impressed with Belle's Goddess of Destruction display -- he had "seen the light" decades ago and, for better or worse, was not about to go all slack-jawed now over some psionic pyrotechnics.

Besides, he had a few tricks of his own. You see, the Padre was never what you call conventional, and in his line of work, unpredictability was considered a highly desirable quality. Which would go far as to explain why Otis would suddenly do a series of backflips out and over the side between cars, supposedly plunging himself to his own gruesome demise.

Indeed, this too, left our villainess rather, shall we say, nonplussed. 

"Oh no, ye come back here, ya miserable coward! Don't you be taking the easy way! Hypocrite!" And lo, the righteously indignant Ms. Belladonna shot after the terribly inconsiderate Sierra Padre, thinking him dead or gone, this, of course, cruelly cheating her of certain victory...immediately discovering herself on the business end of an E.M.P. Twelve Aught, temporarily having her levitation mojo scrambled.

"_HAWR!_ Sociopaths are soooo predictable!" This from Otis, hanging from an access ladder, playing possum.

For one, breathless moment, Belle just hung there motionless, like a puppet with its strings caught up, as the train rolled on beneath her. Then, like a bag of anvils, she dropped...

Straight into a livestock car...

Smack into the chicken pens...

Covered in chicken goop. 

_Lots_ of chicken goop.

All over her brand-new, tailor-made, did I mention peach-colored, suit. 

Well, it clashed, terribly.

"I'LL KILL YOU SLOW, YE GREAT BLACK HAGGIS! _SLOW_, Y'HEAR?!"

No idle threat, but before the swirl of sawdust and feathers could settle, the Padre was right there, imparting wisdom upside Belle's noggin with his industrial strength tome, knocking her out flat. "'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' Book etc., verse etc." 

"If that's true, Brother Otis, why do I still owe alimony?"

Shotgun cocked and ready, the Padre spun around to face down any and all comers -- and instead found someone who wasn't coming or going, and was already, well, facing down.

"Lord a'mighty!!"

"I don't think so, but thanks for the vote of confidence..."

It was the captain of the guard, a one Mr. Redd Rover, one of Pinkerton's elite, limp and bloodied, hidden among the debris of the aforementioned firefight. His gunmetal grey hardsuit all pocked and broken, like a high-tech Humpty Dumpty, with Mr. Rover himself unfortunately resembling the runny yellow parts. The phrase "rode hard and put up wet" comes to mind. But he was still alive.

The Padre cracked a smile so wide it seemed to divide his chin from the rest of his head. "You babyass tinhorn anorexic whelp! Still trying to convince the world you're some kinda Sir Lancelot! Zounds!!"

To this, the Pinkerton agent managed a warm chuckle through some body-rattling coughs, a wry grin stiffening into place.

Now, what the Padre said was a terrible rude thing to say, of course, but as ever in the Padre style, Absolutely Factual: Redd Rover had the flamboyance of a riverboat gambler; the shame of a used car salesman; and the heart of a noble warrior -- you know, the kind that writes ballads to fallen foes? -- all wrapped up in a tall, lean and lanky figure that should have tilted to one side in a good headwind. He had an angular, square-jawed face, a head of buzzcut cherry-blond hair, goatee, and a pair of fox-shaped baby blues that alone got him laid more times than a jack rabbit with hormone injections. 

"Well, well, if it ain't the boulder of Mount Carmel! You Bible thumpin' black Methuselah! Ain't you dead yet?! How the hell did you get on this train without my men or my cameras or my cleverly placed, _damn_ expensive warning systems knowing about it? And --"

"Calm down, boy! Don't get yer Underroo's into a knot! I seem to recall you askin' me something similar before. Answer's still the same: the Lord moves in mysterious ways. I just try to follow his example..." The Padre then sat the young captain upright, carefully, and tended to what wounds he could.

"You look like hell..."

"You should know -- OUCH! Don't menace that, you senile, old GodNazi!"

"Sorry, Nancy boy. Would you rather I amputate it from the stump later?" 

"You mean I got a choice?"

Tearing strips from his Inverness, the Padre went about bandaging and setting Redd's fractured left leg with broken crate slates; Redd bitching every time Otis cleaned a wound with rubbing alcohol or tied a bandage in what Redd would colorfully express as a might firm.

Soon realizing he had a captive audience, Otis asked the Pinkerton agent some pertinent questions: "OK, boy, I'm not gonna waltz around with you on this. I know the Duprees have been targeting trains -- not for cargo, but for crew. And I know they've been only going after crew who count old timers among their ranks. Geriatrics who've been with the rail practically since it was first laid down!

"First off, why? And second, we both know kidnapping ain't exactly the Duprees' usual forte -- takes too long to get any results, too iffy. Which leads me to thinking they may only be the hired guns on this one -- also not their usual style." The Padre leaned in close to Redd, then real close, close enough for Redd to see his own reflection in the beads of sweat on the Padre's forehead. "What the hell is going on?" 

Redd Rover considered his old friend and rival for one, tense, razor-sharp moment. But only a moment. "What do you know about _The Cotton-Eyed Joe_?"

They both knew the captain wasn't talking about no square dance.

"What -- the old legend? The folk tales? I don't have time to be playing games with you, boy..."

"It's not a legend, damn it! Listen... listen, we think the Duprees -- or whoever they may be working for -- hell, we think they found it!"

At that moment, the Padre's face went ash white, his eyes bugged out, and his mouth gaped open, causing his jowls to fold up like an accordion.

The captain was grateful that Otis understood the gravity of the situation, but thought the bounty hunter might've been overreacting just a touch. Then he noticed the rather large wooden crate shard stuck through the Padre's right shoulder. Blood spurted everywhere like a cheap horror vid.

"TAKE THAT, YE OLD LUMP O'CLAY! HA! BUMPKIN!"

Otis Van Briggs forgot about Belladonna Dupree. Again. This, you will know, did nothing but make Otis plum mad; at himself, mostly, but with enough to spread around. 

"_GOD'S DENTURES_, WITCH, YOU ARE BEGINNING TO ANNOY ME!"

Spinning around to face Belle, he whipped out a long strand of red beads hidden in his Inverness and, looping them between the third and fourth fingers of each hand, clapped his hands twice loudly, and started rubbing the beads together vigorously, acting like he wasn't even stuck like a pig at a church barbecue.

And he began to glow. Soft. Amber. Warm.

_Huh_, Redd thought absently. _Didn't know he could do that. Must come in handy at Christmas... _

Belle stood transfixed, actually shocked; she didn't know he could do this, either. 

The brightness seemed to quickly intensify, rising from the car floor, pushing it way up and around the Padre in a curtain of ethereal imagery, angelic and ghostlike. Somewhere, from far, far away, Redd could have sworn he heard a heavenly choir... 

Then, abruptly, the light show was over. The music was gone. Time stopped. The battle was joined. 

Striking a stance, the Padre threw back his shoulders (owie!), arched his back, and shot his cusped hands before him, wrist to wrist. "FIRE AND BRIMSTONE!" he commanded.

Sure enough, a great blue ball of fire appeared, instantly speeding across the floor in a blazing trail straight for Belle.

Unfortunately, by this time, she had regained much of her composure -- and all of her ego. "Oh, _puhleeze_!" Out of nowhere, the villainess slammed down the illusion of two breadbox-sized dice, disintegrating the fireball. "Ha! Snake eyes!"

Otis wasted no time in retaliation. "SWORD OF DAMOCLES!"

In a blink, all of the previously shattered wood debris splintered into a barrage of needle-like projectiles, all of which flew swiftly at Ms. Dupree.

Belle simply snapped her fingers and poker cards flew everywhere, deflecting the darts. "Royale flush!" she announced, crossing her arms all haughty-like, throwing her head back with a snort. "Come now, Father, I was doin' this hocus-pocus while still in me diapers!" 

Meanwhile, the Padre's strand of beads seemed to expand exponentially, the length lassoing itself around him in a DNA chain-like pattern. _This was going to have to end_ _soon_, Otis lamented. He was beginning to feel his oats. _Wait for it_, he thought. _Wait for it..._

"So tell me, Father, when did you take up parlor tricks?"

_Just a little longer, witch. Just keep talking, stay distracted_...

"Hmn? And why is it that you be waiting until now to show them off?" 

He was sweating chihuahuas, pacing himself...

"Not wantin' to be stoopin' to my level?"

Suddenly, the Padre's hair bristled; he couldn't believe it -- she had dropped her shields! He could sense it; she wasn't even trying to read his thoughts! The arrogance! 

"_Ashamed?_"

"Naw. Just don't like showing off." _Now!_

"SNAKE IN THE GARDEN!" the Padre commanded, spinning a full 360-degrees and releasing the beads from his orbit. Faster than thought, the strand snared Belladonna Dupree, snaking around her and binding her completely like a boa constrictor in a feeding frenzy.

"ENLIGHTENMENT!" He then whipped out a piece of paper about the size of a grocery ticket and slapped it onto her forehead; it stayed there and seemed to release a fountain of steam, shooting out from just behind the leaflet.

"Wha -- What have _y'done t'me?!_"

It was a parchment scroll, and looked to be as old as Old Earth; illuminated with text in Gothic script, featuring an elaborate, blood-red cross that seemed to finely bleed into the very grain of the paper. 

Belle's skull glowed briefly from within; intense light shot from her eyes like lasers and she screamed, a piercing soul rattle, her bound body contorting like a worm on a hook, more in defiance than in pain. She then passed out, falling to the floor with an anticlimactic thud. Then it got real quiet, except for the rattle of the tracks below and the occasional stuttered clucks of some pretty shell-shocked poultry.

Redd Rover looked up at his friend, curious-like. "_ROSARY BEADS?!_"

"OK, so I'm a lapsed Catholic!"

Redd was incredulous. "You're a Baptist!"

"OK, so I'm a _really_ lapsed Catholic!"

Hunched over, breathing raggedly, soaked in sweat and blood, the Padre simply grabbed the wooden shard and yanked it from his shoulder, all without so much as a gasp. He then promptly slid to the floor next to the captain of the guard. In unison they each sighed, pointedly.

"Twice I forgot about that woman! _Twice!_ Women are the reason I escaped to seminary school in the first place! Women! Gads, what was God thinking?"

The captain had to laugh. "Forget about it! You were looking out for me. Your heart was in the right place..."

"Yeah, but my head was up my ass..."

Suddenly, with a boom and a lurch, an all-too familiar nova-bright whiteness blasted its way into the car.

"MY SISTER! WHAT HAVE YOU BASTARDS DONE TO MY SISTER?!"

The bounty hunter and the Pinkerton man wearily regarded each other.

"It just keeps getting better, don't it?" 

"Scooping up the fun like roadkill..."

_So much for "psionic strength" knockout serum_. Otis didn't know what he was going to do: sue his chemist or just break his thumbs outright.

_Fade to white..._

* * *

A good ninety seconds had dragged by, molasses-slow, as Larkspur stood watch over her friend Calico, her mind elsewhen, kneeling over a patch of dead iron.

This was yet another thing in a list of many that profoundly annoyed Larkspur about her companion: they could be set upon by a pack of pink, fez-topped velociraptors and Calico would be completely oblivious to it, locked away in some sort of psychic rewind, prostrate like a sack of wet potatoes. And, truth to tell, it sometimes worried the vigilante for her friend to be out for more than a few seconds, for fear of her somehow maybe getting stuck like that... not that she would ever confess to it, not by gunpoint or threat of marriage.

Sighing in mock resignation, Larkspur unhooked her lipstick-red neck scarf from the lower half of her face, rubbed under her nose vigorously, and scratched her chin, to great relief. She then unbuttoned her grey half-jacket and, grabbing the lapels, flapped like a young hen, fanning herself, the cowboy fringe pointedly slapped against the soft leather. 

Underneath was revealed a rather racy (and completely impractical) white lace bustier, the outfit's main concession to flash and dazzle. Rounding out the whole gratuitous inventory were her flared cuff riding gloves; skin-tight grey denim jeans; black soft leather knee-high lace-up boots; and black oversized leather belt with silver doubleheart-shaped buckle -- most of which was covered in varying degrees of red dirt, grass stains, motor oil stains, and bits of sagebrush, bristles and caked mud. 

How glamorous. 

As for Calico's "costume," it matched Larkspur's almost exactly, with the sole exception of a sleeveless, cavalry-style button overvest, rows of bone hair-pipes decorating the front. All of which remained spotless, immaculate, even. Larkspur didn't much care for that, either.

"_They are alive!_" exclaimed Calico, just suddenly aware, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Caught offguard more by Calico's bold proclamation than by her abrupt resuscitation, Larkspur stammered, "What?! No way! You're crazy! After this?!"

Calico was adamant. "They have been abducted. Why, I cannot say. And I have reason to believe others may yet live from the attacks before. You will have to trust me..."

It was almost too much for Larkspur to hope for. She wasn't used to playing the cynic, but --

"Tarnation, Pony! You know that doesn't fit the Duprees' M.O.! They're Chaos Theory personified!"

"Just so..." Calico calmly replied.

Silence fell briefly between the two as Larkspur steeled herself to the idea, her head swung low.

Now, let us pause here to say that there are likely two things you need to know about the core psychological make-up of the heroic Larkspur and Calico, and that they are this:

Although they both fell into the hero business completely by accident, _Larkspur_ stayed in it for kicks, while _Calico_ remained for the sense of freedom it afforded her. 

You see, the plain and unexpurgated fact of the matter is that Railhead's two greatest heroes started out with absolutely no intention of being said such, and in fact were aiming to be _career criminals_, with a collective eye towards train and stage robbery.

What kept them from being very successful at this was a combination of ethical standards and bad timing. First off, they would not rob blue-collar workers, nuns, or children. Second, it always seemed that some meaner, more ruthless set of banditos or highwaymen were just ahead of them at the scene of their intended crimes, and that they found themselves compelled to save the day, preventing unsightly loss of life. This was perpetual. 

To their credit, though, they got to be pretty good at this, going up against some of that era's most fearsome criminals. Problem was, once they whomped up on the bad guys, they just didn't seem to have the heart to pillage anybody. It didn't seem, well, seemly. 

Well, faster than you can say "film at eleven," the media circus got ahold of our heroes like a pitbull to a mailman, turning an already unlikely set of tales into an even more convoluted "_ongoing saga of the eternal struggle between good and evil_."

Not bad for a pair of lasses barely into their twenties. For indeed, it seems that Larkspur, daughter of financial baron Preston Bliss, and Calico, heiress to the Nokidomo Software empire, were -- at the beginning, at least -- nothing more than two spoiled rich kid wildchilds, out looking for the puerile thrills and decadence that could only be had by living life on the cutting edge.

Now, Larkspur and Calico loved making music, make no mistake. But the glamour of rock stardom started to pale, and the dark lure of high risk and sudden death looked to be their ticket out of Dullsville.

Little did they know.

It's the same, sad old story, all right, or would have been, had not the Fates been so determined of its outcome. So verily, it came to pass that each successive adventure was more outrageous than the last, finally outclassing anything the newswebs could embellish.

Life lessons were learned hard and fast out on the prairie, and so the reluctant duo began to earnestly accept the mantle and responsibility of their reputation. Earnestly, but thankfully, never too seriously.

For Larkspur, it was just plain _fun_ to be the good guy, a source of joy and merriment, racking up the brownie points and basking in the glory. For Calico, having chosen this path was simply a matter of great personal pride and fulfillment. This was not to shine Larkspur in any bad light, however. She was as brave and true as a pride of lions and then some. It's just that she would occasionally lose that "joie de vivre" when things stopped being a lark, and had to be coerced into action by her partner -- prodded, as it were -- whenever any particular adventure was turning especially grim. 

Fortunately, it didn't take much. Case in point:

"HOT _DAMN_ AND DON'T SPARE THE CHILI PEPPERS!!"

With a bounce and a rebel yell, Larkspur smiled that smile as big as all-outdoors, grabbed Calico by the wrist, and led her into a little doesy-doh.

Giddy, Larkspur breathlessly inquired, "Okeedokee, so where were they taken? It's a big damn planet --"

Calico looked thoughtful (which was quite a stunt, considering she was currently being swung around by a madwoman). "I think I know. It was nothing that was said, barely even thought. But it makes a crazy kind of sense..." She then paused, more to catch her breath than for any effect.

"... _Cathedral Station!_"

_TO BE CONTINUED_..

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Howdy.

What you have (hopefully) just read, I began around four years ago as nothing more than a writing exercise, a bit of stream-of-consciousness disguised as something with an actual plot. But, as I am sure has happened to countless other creators, the work soon took on a life of its own.

I realize that I'm not breaking any new ground here, as the concept of the "fantastic" Western has been around for quite a while:

On TV: _The Wild Wild West_; _The Adventures of Brisco County_ _Jr_.; _Legend_. 

In movies: _Valley of the Gwangi_; _Westworld_; _Outland_.

In comics: _Dusty Starr_; _Far West_; _Virtex_. 

In American cartoons: _The Adventures of the Galaxy Rangers_; _Calamity Jane_. 

In literature: _A Spectre is Haunting Texas;_ _Santiago!;_ _Dark Tower_. 

And, of particular interest to me, in anime and manga: _Riot_; _Outlaw Star_; _Trigun_. 

All of the above are a few of my favorites, and are probably some of the best examples there are.

But even they, to some extent, suffer from the same problems the rest of this redheaded stepchild of a sub-genre does: an inherent layer of cheese. "Inherent" because for a "fantastic" Western to work, it must adhere to at least some "horse opera" conventions to be recognized as such, and when put into combination with the science fiction or fantasy genres, the result is often convoluted.

Because of this, most creators opt for the lighthearted approach, utilizing elements of pastiche, homage, and character humor. 

I am no different. Make no mistake, I know that my work is derivative. My only goal is to entertain, and to give life to characters that have been knocking around in my brain, in one form or another, since 1986 (Hi, Edd! Hi, Edith!). 

My name is Guy Clayton Brownlee, and I eagerly await your critiques. By all means be honest, but also please be considerate in your responses. I am overtly sensitive, and prone to bouts of melancholy when provoked. :)

This installment of "Coyote Sisters: The Adventures of Larkspur and Calico," has been brought to you by:Benten Label/Sister Records@: fine purveyors of Japanese girl-punk and retro-pop bands! Check 'em out at --

[http://www.sister.co.jp/english/index.html] 

Highest recommendation: "Lolita No. 18!"

Every last damn thing copyrighted @2000 Guy Clayton Brownlee, unless where otherwise noted. Comprende, buckaroo?


	2. Default Chapter Title

**COYOTE SISTERS:**

**THE ADVENTURES OF LARKSPUR AND CALICO**

By: Guy C. Brownlee 

**PART TWO: RIDERS IN THE SKY**

__

_Taken from the journals of Professor Ebenezer Henway, AKA "Doc Rooster"; M.D.; D.D.S.; P.H.D.; historian; profound intellect; gadgeteer._

For all its mere two hundred years of human occupation, Railhead was already a world rich in legend and folklore. Take, for example, the majestic, mystery-shrouded landmark of _Cathedral Station_. 

So and rightly named for its expansive, cavernous construction; gilded appointments; and elaborate stainglass atriums, it was a veritable shrine to the reborn age of rail. With its vast switching and loading yards all under the same baroque roof, the very railspikes themselves were said to have been made of pure bronze. 

All forever left standing, abandoned for nigh-on eighty years, any rail connections long since discontinued, marooned in the middle of an endless, empty plain. Of course, there once had to have been some type of community to support such a thing, and judging by the station itself, if the township had survived, it might have gone on to rival San Laredo itself in size and grandeur. 

A few surviving records seemed to indicate that the area was lousy with mineral deposits, which go far as to explain how such a place was supported. But there were no records, not one, of what happened to this long desolate locale, why everyone simply up and left. 

_Gone_, that is, all within the time of no more than two years. In the decades since, fear and superstition had come to surround and permeate the area, as the popular theory behind the exodus had speculated that the spot was no less than a sandbanshee breeding ground. 

Story has it that the townspeople stoically stood their ground -- at first, at least -- and attempted to ward off or outright exterminate the critters en masse. But, as these tales usually go, it was all for naught, as those citizens that didn't vamoose were eaten, driven mad by the banshee wail, or had their ill-conceived line of defense fatally backfire on them. It was embarrassing. 

You see, sandbanshees were just plain ignorant. Dumb. Stupid. Not bright. Not _even_. They were creatures of instinct only. Usually bad. And a cliche on top of that: a staple of pulp video horror shows, literary space epics, and Boy Scout campfire yarns dating all the way back to old Earth. 

Giant worms. 

Bigger than an ox, with an equally large, gaping maw; multiple serpentine tongues; and rows upon rows of oscillating, razor-sharp fangs, each as big as your fist. And hungry, always hungry. I swear, where's the originality in that? 

Imagine how the first colonizing biologists must have felt, after untold years of finding not so much as brainless Jello molds or insect larvae on other worlds, to come to Railhead and the first honest-to-Mergatroid, goodness-to-Betsy xenomorph they discover is basically hookbait for Moby Dick. 

The critters did have an original feature, however: they made an unholy racket, their scream alone enough to shatter rocks. Hence the name. That ability, and their multitude of numbers, were about the only thing that had kept the species going for all those years. That, and sheer blind luck. 

Well, sir, they supposedly totaled that town way back when, on a wild-eyed stampede, knocking stuff over, breaking gaslines, sending the place up like the last days of Pompeii. And the only thing left standing... 

That nameless city's crown jewel... 

Cathedral Station... 

... which is probably pure horse exhaust; you'd think that between the tracking satellites, with their geological radars, infrared scanners and laser hyperimagery cameras, and the standard mining operation drill probes, with their seismic indicators and residue samplers and the great John Henry only know what else, that _SOMEBODY_ would have noticed _SOMETHING_ peculiar before moving into the neighborhood. 

But I digress. 

* * * 

Standing smack dab in the middle of San Laredo, trying its damnedest to loom ominously over the whole high-falootin' town, was the majestic MacMurtry Building, home to the Donahue Land & Title Company. 

Vaulting eighty floors into the sky, it was an elegant, sleek and ornate monolith, with delicately carved redwood and green marble facades all the way around. Raven-winged wolf and coyote gargoyles, made from the very same textiles, perched from every parapet. A private airship moor was vaingloriously tethered near the top. The airship itself was as sleek as a shark, and probably the most advanced piece of transportation on the planet at the time. The company logo, a pair of longhorns framed by a circled star, was plastered across its bow. 

And down at street level, centering the plaza that fronted the whole shebang, was an equally fancy water fountain: larger than life, full-motion hologrammed images of wild stallions in full gallop, hovered just above alternating sprays of H2O, mimicking nature. In a decidedly odd twist, however, the visual texture of the equines would constantly morph, from liquid gold to jade to ivory to beveled granite to so forth and so on. 

It all put the Planetary Capital & Administrations Building, located just across the avenue, to shame. Which, I think, was the point. 

You see, ol' Cactus Brett Donahue -- land baron and corporate mogul -- was a wealthy young bastard who owned and leaned against the better part of the very real-estate the government governed over. That is to say, much of the planet Railhead itself. Heck, it was no big secret, even then, that Brett had a hankering for the governorship. What was not widely known was the lengths he'd go to get it (dramatic foreshadowing here, partners, so pay attention). 

No doubt about it, Donahue was a despicable, silver-tongued snakecharmer -- a true villain in the best melodrama fashion. His features were rugged and cruelly handsome: square jaw; cleft chin; smoky grey, squinty-thin eyes; thinning but adeptly coiffured salt and pepper hair; and a perennially pasted-on smile that was equal parts razzle-dazzle and squirm-inducing. Stick this on top of a broad-shouldered, 6'5"-tall frame, wrapped in the finest silk suits money can import, and you have the imposing visage that was Cactus Brett. 

His office spanned the entirety of the seventy-eighth floor and was quite the palazzo, cavernous but plush. Overstuffed sofas and highbacks of upholstered green velvet sat amongst statuary, taxidermy, exotic flora, and priceless objects d'art. It was all so densely appointed, in fact, as to make it oddly suffocating. Much like the man. 

On this particular morning, Cactus Brett was primping himself for the day. With electric razor in hand, the panoramic-sized, liquid crystal bay window behind his desk was toned to reflect/display. 

Suddenly the opening bars to Beethoven's Ninth filled the room, pure _ID4_ _Dolby_, indicating he had an incoming call, top priority, on a secured channel. Automatically, the window went from mirror to two-way videofeed, the image taking up most of the view belonging to one Ms. Belladonna Dupree. Which was considerable, indeed, taking in the fact that she looked about ready to jump from the screen and throttle ol' Brett proper. 

"Bon jour, Belle, ma chere. What's the good word?" 

"_MIS_ter Donahue, why weren't we informed that there would be _guests_ on this particular outing, namely a whole puking regiment of Pinkerton SWAT, and a damned annoying bounty hunter that simply _refuses_ t'be killed and quotes Scripture more often than the Pope at Christmas?!" 

Brett couldn't help but discreetly notice the rhythmic rise and fall of Belle's blouse as she "vented spleen." He envied her brother. 

"Come now, Belle, it's not as if we didn't expect this sort of thing to happen sooner or later. I mean, one simply cannot go derailing locomotives and abducting folks without attracting a spotlight ere long!" 

Yes, he talked like that. 

"Ah, well, an' that may be so, but just be glad this the last of it, or we'd be raising the ante, so t'speak..." 

With a start, Brett rose from his seat. "You mean you found them? All of them? The first seven?" 

"If y'be meaning 'do we have a conundrum of old farts,' aye. The one's still wheezin', anyways. _All_ lifetime Mitcherooney employees, t'answer yer next question..." Belle feigned disinterest and parried nonchalance like a dueling foil. "And strike me if each one wore an old bronze-plated cardkey 'round their neck like dog tags, just like you said. Now all we need be doing is cracking the sequence code..." 

"Excellent! Once we are able to implement _The Cotton-Eyed Joe_, events will fall by faster than a chain of dominoes!" 

"Yeah, yeah, fine, sure, ab_SO_lutely fabulous. Just don't be forgetting the deal y'struck with me and me darling brother..." 

"Which one, dear? I've lost count..." 

It's true: the only person that can manipulate a sociopath is an even _bigger_ sociopath. It's nothing to yank on the chain of an itty-bitty piranha when you're a big badass barracuda. Brett knew just what buttons to push with the Dupree twins, and was totally fearless when it came to pushing them. 

It's also true: you can't shoot a man born to hang. 

"AND YE DAMN WELL KNOW WHAT WE WANT Y'STINKING PANSY! THAT BIMBO LARKSPUR'S HEAD ONNA PIKE! And I don't care how ye do it, either! Shoot her; strangle her; hang her; garrote her; poison her; gut her; set her on fire; dip her in acid; blow her up; drop a chubb safe on her; drop a whole freaking building on her; stick pins in a Barbie; JUST GET HER OFF OUR BACKS AND OUT OF OUR HAIR!!" 

By this time, it appeared that the hyperventilating Belle was just about ready to pop out of the top five buttons of her blouse. Brett made a wager with himself, hoping he'd lose. 

"Gee, Belle, I've been wondering about that. I mean, one would think that the great and terrible Dupree twins could handle a scrawny little vigilante like Ms. Larkspur --" 

A funny thing happened then. The screen went black. No static, so he wasn't sure if Belle zapped the A/V transmitter outright or simply cut the feed. Ah, well. He was certain that his men had taken a few back-up units with them out to the site. Occupational hazard. 

-- Actually, as Brett saw it, his curiosity about what could be called "The Larkspur and Calico Matter," was right legitimate, as it was indeed an undisputed fact that no matter when or where the Duprees alighted, The Girls were always there, just in the nick of time. And despite the two vigilantes' apparent physical limitations, they always, 

_Always_, 

Won. 

Brett's assurances that he would use the vast resources at his command to discreetly, but completely, delete the girls from history was the one harness that kept the Duprees under his reins. 

Soon another call had come in, this time from building security. The young man, first shift supervisor by his epaulets and insignia, was noticeably uncomfortable, fidgety. Actually, he looked about as calm as a pink flamingo at a Republican tapdancer's convention. "Sir, I apologize for the intrusion. I'm not sure I should be bothering you..." 

"Then why are you?" Brett replied, flat and sarcastic. He sat back down in his chair, upright, legs crossed, hands clasped over one knee. 

He noticed the young officer stifle a hard gulp. "Sir, I believe there to be an intruder in the building." 

Brett was slightly incredulous. "_Intruder_? How could you tell? In case you haven't noticed, it's normal business hours, young man." 

"I realize this, sir, but if I could get you to just bear with me. 

"Look, sir, I'll be blunt. No sensors are being tripped, no alarms are going off. All we are getting is a visual and barely _that_." 

As he listened, Brett was astonished to hear genuine concern in the supervisor's voice. _True company loyalty? Or man dedicated to letter of his job? Remarkable, either way_. Brett decided he would squeeze this through the ringer later. 

"MacMurtry has over five hundred surveillance cameras, with three hundred concealed or camouflaged, and only a quarter of them picked up... whatever it is we're picking up. We've isolated and magnified each image, cut the lapse speed to slower than a snail on Valium, and still all we're getting is a blur. It's opaque, distorted, almost totally offscreen -- but it's an image, nonetheless. We've run a full system diagnostic and there is nothing to indicate a glitch anywhere down the line. 

"Sir, I'd feel a lot better if we got you out of here. Whatever it is, it's moving in a successive manner, with intent, totally non-random, methodically, floor by floor." 

Brett's eyes flashed wide and white as a jolt of revelation hit him. _Could it be her? After_ _all this time?_ A feral smile snaked its way across his lips as his eyes gleamed sharply. _Why_ _not?_ _It had been a long time since he last enjoyed "Doll's" company, and he was long overdue for one of her delightful little tete-a-tetes..._

Brett's voice took on a deep, smugly amused tone in his reply to the security supervisor -- "Do you know what I think, Mr. Fitzhugh? Fritz Fitzhugh, right? I think you're just being paranoid. That's good. I pay you to be paranoid." Brett leaned back easy into his swiveled, highback leather throne, absently tapping the butt of his pen against the armrest. "But, Fritz, really. _Phantasms_, yet." 

"But -- But, sir!" 

"Now, now, no more of this balderdash. Besides, if there actually was a threat to my life, by the time you had finished your eloquently spoken, heartfelt appeal, I would have already been _dead_. Good-bye, Mr. Fitzhugh, you may _keep_ your job." 

No mistake. Brett was having himself a little party. 

Rat's ass. 

-- And again Brett was serenaded, hailed this time from the desk intercom. Fairly erupting from the speaker was the panicky, rapid-fire delivery of his receptionist, Ms. Petzer: "Mr. Donahue, I tried to stop them but they insisted they had an appointment to see you and while I was looking them up they barged their way onto the elevator and while it looks like they _did_ have an appointment they, uh, they're on their way up, Mr. Donahue, sir. Sorry." 

Irritated, Brett's mood skipped a beat. Were all of his employees' neurons misfiring this morning? He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Who?" he asked. There was a brief but poignant silence. 

"Excuse me, sir?" 

"_Who_ is on their way up?" 

"Um, the Governor and Mayor Many Pages, sir." 

And be damned if Brett didn't crack into that smarmy, man-eating grin of his again, his enthusiasm rising. "Oh, very good, Ms. Petzer. Excellent, in fact! Take the rest of the day off. On me." 

The cheerful intercourse only served to underscore his receptionist's confusion, of course. She fainted. 

Meanwhile, no sooner had Brett clasped his hands in anticipation, than did the brass doors to his private lift slide open to admit said dignitaries, who looked grim. Very grim. 

Standing, Brett walked over and greeted them with his best poker face, right hand extended. "_Eddie!_ _Maggs!_ How _smashing_ to see you! Welcome to my humble hovel..." 

They were having none of it. 

The Governor regarded Brett's hand in open distaste, eyes narrow, expression chill. "No thank you. I don't know where it's been..." she flatly replied. 

"Or worse, she knows _exactly_ where it's been..." added the Mayor, monotone and humorless. 

Yes, sir, the Mayor and his Governor were indeed a couple of mightily imposing figures, and if Cactus Brett Donahue had not been such a darn smug fool, he would have been properly imposed. 

First there was Railhead's planetary Governor, the widower Mrs. Margaret Roosevelt, given by marriage to a great, historic and political name. And by choice, to the terrible responsibility that went with it. 

She was a proud woman of earthy beauty and amazingly robust proportions, herself of Romany descent, full of fire and vinegar. Her eyes were auburn, almond-shaped, musky yet sparkling, fronted by a fine, heroic nose. Her complexion was fair, her ruby lips full, her tresses chestnut-brown and waist-length, all serving greatly to accent her womanliness. Her blue-violet gown was equally elegant, laced and beaded, with a low, wide yoke, finely netted, showcasing two of Railhead's greatest natural resources. 

And yes, damn right, I had a crush on her, so did the whole of the male population of the planet at that time. Those that weren't gay or blind, anyway. 

Now hush up and listen: this woman was a great leader, singlehandedly lifting up Railhead from a great economic depression that had lasted nearly ten years; as well as establishing the planet's first fully successful network of civilian peacekeeping forces in just about every colony across the globe. She was epic. 

"_MEE_ster _DONY_-hew, for someone who wishes to promote a _POSO-TEEVE, PRO-ACK-TEEVE_ _EE_mage, you certainly have a _damned_ peculiar interpretation of the concept, one in which I find greatly much to be desired!! Besides the cruel audacity of it, this thing you do, it is also insufferably _UNEE_magina_TEEVE_! What do you do as a hobby -- tie ingenues to train tracks at high noon?_ Hmn?!_" 

Nothing known to the laws of physics could compare much to Maggie on a good diatribe. She was like a tsunami with teeth. 

And weathering the storm beside her was the legendary Mayor Chief Edd Many Pages, former leader of the Svaha nation -- hence "Chief" -- scholar, man of many letters, and stalwart man of action. To look upon him was to see the face of benevolent wisdom, of honor and strength. 

His features were classical American Indian, his hair long and black, pulled back tight over his skull into an elaborately braided tail. A single snowdove feather dangled from his left ear. He wore a crisply tailored, black three-piece suit, and black bolo tie. All currently offset, of course, by the veins bulging in his neck and on his forehead, accompanied by a rather nasty twitch in his left eye. 

And just what did Mr. Donahue do to seek the wrath of two of the greatest leaders of all the free world of that age? The thing that was as cliched as it was abominable? 

Simply and coldheartedly foreclosed on a city-supported orphanage is all, forcing thousands of preschoolers and gamin youth out on to the streets. That is, until the people of the mighty Svaha nation selflessly offered to take them in until something could be done. 

Maggie and Edd were as livid as a pair of steamed lobsters, and twice as red. Needless to say, when Maggie got mad her accent would flair up something awful, but when Edd got sore, it was even more pronounced. He would speak in iambic pentameter. Fluently. 

_"indeed, t'would seem thou art enjoys playing at being the villain most foul, both shameless and theatrical; no subtlety by any measures half nor whole, equal only to an apparently gleeful lack of compassion!"_

Once the orphanage had been cleared of children and personnel, the Mayor ordered the aforementioned First Cavalry to surround the structure and blockade it against Brett's wrecking ball, citing possession without significant notification. Brett countered with a lawsuit citing illegal obstruction and general trespassing on private property. 

It was getting ugly. 

And here was Brett, feigning disinterest, or at the very least, ignorance, of the whole affair. Well, sir, it galled. 

"I am the last person who wants to paint a picture of Donahue Land & Title as some faceless, soulless corporate empire; but the fact of the matter is that we have branches all over Railhead, and ownership of hundreds of subsidiaries I don't even know the name to. Here, up on Maverick, even on Raimi, over on the far side of the sun! I'm sure it's simply a case of the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing! You have my word that I will look into this matter personally..." 

Maggie didn't blink once. "I am not buying this, _MEE_stir _DONY_hew. It was _your_ signature on the eviction papers, and it was _your_ signature on the lawsuit..." 

Edd was unrelentless. _"I would believe a man in your position, even you, would show a modicum of spleen, sir, and own up to the responsibility of what is clearly your own actions!"_

"People! People! I am not the first man to be left out of the loop in his own environment! Why, it was merely four years ago when someone I thought I could trust used their position to literally skip town with a RND prototype that would have amazing industrial and military applications, causing a severe loss of potential through-the-roof profits! 

"She was like a daughter to me, and what did I get? Random assassination attempts; sabotage on freight shipments; file system viruses; more missing research and development projects like an actual 'cloaking' fiber optic camouflage material that was never fully developed, so I wonder how she worked out all the kinks, let alone how she had the outfit made, because I must say, I _am_ impressed with the results..." 

Slowly it occurred to Edd and Maggie that not only was Brett carrying on a slightly different conversation than theirs, he was also acting as if he was carrying it on with someone else entirely. Perplexed, His Honor the Mayor and the Governor shot each other the same kind of lost expression one gets when you try to quote Kafka to a twelve-week-old Labrador Retriever. 

The word "shot" here mayhap being a mite unfortunate, as Brett then politely excused himself, reached under his top middle desk drawer, and nonchalantly produced a pristine, working replica of an AK-47. And proceeded to fire. 

Yep, it was about at this point when things got a tad, what you would call, "avant-garde." 

Instinctively, Mayor Edd dove for Governor Maggie, sending them both sprawling sideways onto the polished hardwood floor. Good ol' Edd tried real hard to be valiant and keep the Governor from harm's way -- shielding her with his body and all -- but when they finally came up for air and noticed that Brett wasn't gunning for _them_, at least not at the moment, well, the situation just looked compromising. Still, that all begged the question: just what _was_ the megalomaniac shooting at? 

That's when they heard the voice: young, female, weary, and _pissed_. "_Hello, Daddy_." 

Brett lowered his gun, his face a contrast of smug and annoyed. "Hello, Baby Doll." 

What Edd and Maggie saw then looked all for the world like a beautiful, ethereal wraith, a veritable apparition. At first. 

Dazed, the Mayor of San Laredo slowly recognized this so-called shade, and knew that, while not wholly human, she was nevertheless quite real. Hell, it was impossible for him not to recognize her, what with her image posted on every dag-blamed telephone pole, police and post office bulletin board, and saloon restroom wall in town. 

She was a shootist, a high-dollar hired gun. She was also a cyborg, her body a shell of semi-soft, porcelain white pleistocene. Her name was "Doll," her dramatis personae, "The Clockwork Assassin." 

And, if she was to be believed, Cactus Brett Donahue's own once flesh and blood. 

Her form was provocatively female, gloved in what appeared to be a shimmery, gauzy white bodysuit, actually made of monfilaments and fiber optics that, on mental command, reflected and refracted light, making her virtually invisible in plain view. It also kept dust and the elements of everyday from clogging up her joints. Wrapped in a turban-like hooded shawl, only her lovely head was still mostly human, her skin alabaster, her face delicate and fine, framed by a luxurious mane of pure white. Her fierce gray eyes centered on Brett like two crosshairs. 

Brett had gotten damn lucky, taking potshots as he did, guessing not only Doll's position, but her relative height as well. A single bullet had grazed her left temple, shorting out the only part of her still-flesh skull that was hardwired, a dark smear trailing from brow to ear. 

"_Interesting_ ensemble, Baby Doll. A trifle more immodest than I would prefer any offspring of _mine_ to wear, but what can I say? I guess that indentured servitude to sartorial splendor just runs in the blood. Not bad." 

"What, this old thing? Pshaw, just something I picked up. Say, speaking of blood, I believe it's time to spill some." 

"Damn. And the carpet just steamed." 

Then, like a trampoline factory in an earthquake, the joint started to _jump_. 

Dropping to one knee, Doll whipped out a large, stub-nosed automatic from the folds of her shawl and let loose before sprinting into thin-air camouflage, her image violently wavered in and out like a factory second Cheshire Cat. The shots sparked like firecrackers off a bonded plexiglass barrier in front of Brett's desk, somehow just there from mere seconds before. 

All around the office, ceramic busts of various historic personages -- from Old Earth Mark Twain and Will Rogers; to Railhead Captain Jack Mitcherooney -- had their hinged jaws literally drop, revealing particle beam turrets mounted inside, each "mounting off" something fierce. Beams lanced around the room, crisscrossing in a deadly patchwork pattern. 

In a 360-degree spin, Doll hitched her shawl off one shoulder and pulled out a long gun, picking off each statue like daisies. Bullet shells carpeted the floor. 

Meanwhile, Brett kept smiling that damned smile as he lowered his plexiglass shield just long enough to toss out a few bottle-cap explosives into the room, executing a few near misses, and generally redecorating his office in Early Hiroshima. 

Then the militia that was the building's armed security erupted in through the private elevator and fire exits, full blast. At the fore was young Fitzhugh, looking suitably grim and determined. 

_Well, this is getting just damned silly_, thought Maggie, not cottoning to the fact that she was being ignored in such a blatant manner. 

Meanwhile, Doll herself was ricocheting off the walls, working out strategies likkity-split, winking in and out of sight, and drawing a metric buttload of gunfire. 

The Mayor and the Governor were still huddled together on the floor, hugging onto a faux Ethan Allen highback, utilizing it as a half-arsed shield, looking all ten kinds of pathetic. Sudden, penny-sized bits of leather went flying as the chair got riddled in the melee. 

It wasn't until Doll nearly tripped over the pair, whilst returning said gunfire, that she finally acknowledged their company. She had backed into the Governor, neatly stepping square on her right hand, thereby soliciting an unexpected yelp from Mrs. Roosevelt. Startled, Doll looked down at both of them, incredulous-like, eyes wide, as if they were serpents born full from the head of Medusa, each one pitching the virtues of "gently used" sports utility vehicles. 

Well, it was more than Maggie could take. "I have _had_ it! This is _outrageous_! I will not cower like some bugeous-spoonfed debutante! Enough! _Enough_, I say!" 

Defiant, the Governor shot straight upright, fists on hips, shoulders back, chest and chin out, red faced-to-face with the shootist, just daring her or anyone else in the room to try a damned thing. Sure enough, the gunplay cut short, quelled as it was by a force of nature. 

From Edd's point of view, though, something in Doll's head seemed to slide into place, almost with a resonate "click," as the expression on her face showed... respect? Compassion? Hard to tell, especially when the very next thing Doll did was to go ballistic... Literally. 

"Pardon me, Madam Governor." 

At first, it looked like Doll was just showing off, throwing off her hooded shawl and flexing her muscles. Then her shoulder blades sprang back, her chest plates popped open and her forearm rose out, ripping through her outfit to reveal a multitude of rocket, missile and grenade launchers, all primed and ready. Steam shot out of vents in her back, her coolant system in overdrive. 

See, Ms. Doll had been holding back a bit. 

But instead of unloading into Brett's tin soldiers, she turned and let go at the line of windows to either side of Daddy Dear's desk. Sidewinders and Popchasers jackhammered the inches-thick earthquake glass, showering the room in a firestorm of glass and debris. The security team scrambled for cover. Brett ducked. And when the smoke cleared, there was, well, nothing -- a great big mess of it -- where a window bay used to be. 

With absolutely no effort, Doll hauled the Mayor and the Governor both up by the scruff of their collars, first holding them out at arm's length, saying aloud -- "Sorry, guys, but you're just in the way." Then, holding them closer, whispering -- "I'm terribly sorry that you two got mixed up in all of this. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the things you're trying to do for this town..." 

She then promptly walked over and tossed them both out the window. Brushing her hands, she turned back to face the room. "Now, where were we?" 

* * * 

They had seen it coming for more than five livid, frustrating minutes, suspended like a hangman's noose over the desert horizon. A massive, twin-dirigible airship, patchworked together from military surplus -- Army, Navy, and other denominations -- propelled by a multitude of gigantic, turboprop nacelles, and armed to the teeth with gunship-class howitzer cannons and rocket launchers. It was flanked by a pair of retrofitted P51 Mustang fighter planes, painted to match the black, red, and gold of the airship's balloons. Alongside the ship's bow, in large, menacing Gothic type, was the legend _The Merry Widowmaker_, accompanied by the stylized crest of a rampant, tiger-striped arachnid. 

Onboard this flying piece of intimidation was a woman who knew how to carry a grudge: its captain, none other than the dread Poison Ashley. 

It was high noon, the Railhead sun slamming down on the open plains like a blacksmith's hammer on a flame-stoked poker. Larkspur and Calico were riding hell-bent for leather towards Cathedral Station, with Larkspur's dirthog inevitably kicking epic billows of dust behind them, basically sending out a signal that read "_COME AND GET IT_!" Yes, sir, they were caught out, nowhere to bolt, nowhere to hide. 

Larkspur was naturally a bit cross. "_SPIT_ and other four-letter words! Not now! Ash, you toad, your timing SUCKS A DEAD MOOSE IN AUGUST!!" 

Calico, in the sidecar, remained silent. Not much she could add to that. 

Larkspur continued to curse under her breath, her teeth gritted together so tight it would have took a forklift to pry them open, so tight her canines gave out sparks grinding. She cursed, among other things, the three Fates, imagining herself garroting the goddesses of chance with their own damn gilded thread. 

The dirthog lurched forward abruptly, as the two Mustangs swooped down and made a strafing run to either side, each _thisclose_ to the ground, then peeled up and away in a perfect split. Target acquisitioned. I.D. Confirmed. 

"Show-offs!" 

The airship was above them now, blotting out the sun, the thunder of the huge propellers maddening, second only to the reverb from the cursed ship's public address system -- 

"OHHOHOHO! And what is _zis_? Iz it Moi's birthday already? If it is Christmas, where is all the pretty pretty snow? Oh, bless my little head, I am so confused! How _else_ am I to explain zis _wonderful_ gift?" 

Larkspur rolled her eyes. It was that laugh, that so-painfully-over-the-top girlish titter, that got to her every single time; so obviously affected it just plain made her ears twitch! Why, she bet that bowhead pirate wasn't even really French. Harumph, pshaw, etc. 

Now, Ashley -- that's Ms. Ashley Angelique -- had a long and colorful association with our heroines, what you might call a real love/hate relationship. You see, Ashley was a true pirate: greedy, cunning, quick-tempered, all-too clever, and more than a little flamboyant. She enjoyed her chosen vocation and was good at it... and made damn sure everyone else knew it, too, waxing narcissistic about her glorious exploits to just about anyone she could hogtie and wrestle to the ground. She especially delighted in publicly bandying all this around while within earshot of the planetary authorities. 

And she always got away with it because, _well, she always got away with it_: in all her capers, Ashley and her crew either never got caught hands-down red-handed, or there never was sufficient proof to make any charges stick. 

Not even the stoic Larkspur and Calico had been truly successful at "wroughting the foe," as it were, a real burr of contention in Larkspur's saddle. Yet, for all of her she-devil swagger, Ashley was also big-hearted -- and a bit flighty -- with her own, er, highly individualized sense of honor... more often than not, coming to the aid of our two young heroines on some crusade she felt worthy of her attention. 

Needless to say, this wasn't one of those times. 

Meanwhile, the open plains seemed a mite more circumscribed, as a squadron of Dragonflies -- single-piloted, heavy artillery autogyros -- came spilling from the airship's hangar bay doors, each laying down a small salvo round, attempting to corral Larkspur's Harlequin into a gauntlet. 

"Calico, sweetie, call me late for dinner, but don't it seem like the ol' girl's a mite piqued at us, _nes-pa_?" 

"Ah, that would probably be due to our having thwarted her last, oh, dozen attempts at snatching that _Da Vinci_ while it made its museum tour onworld..." 

"Ya _think_?" 

Larkspur continued to throttle open her dirthog over the rolling desert terrain, the bike jerking and rattling violently as if ready to pop apart at the rivets. She was determined to outrun the air leviathan, not out of fear, but out of a sort of defiant indifference -- a noble sentiment that unfortunately proved to be about as practical as teaching a pig to chew snuff. 

Soon the Dragonflies made an attack run, each falling into formation behind Larkspur, concentrating all their gunfire to the rear of her bike. She lost her saddlebags, gunrack, and vanity plate. Damn near got her gastank nicked. That didn't set too well. 

"EXCUSE ME, BOYS! A GIRL LIKES ATTENTION, BUT I DO BELIEVE _SODOMY IS ILLEGAL AROUND HERE_!!" 

Eyes aflame, Larkspur slammed her Harlequin into a 180-degree about-face, the inverse of physical laws sending the tail end of the bike high into the air, bucking like a snakebit bronc, charging at her pursuers full-tilt-gonzo. 

"Y'KNOW, THEY SAY A WOMAN WITH P.M.S. IS DANGEROUS! GEE, I DON'T THINK IT'S MY TIME OF THE MONTH -- _GUESS I'M JUST A BITCH!!_" 

It was an awesome sight to behold, the kind of epic scene that fires the imagination and quickens the heart: with guns ablaze, Larkspur and Calico took on that squadron of Dragonflies, more than half run aground by Larkspur singlehandedly. Those gyros that didn't get their flight paths unfortunately crossed by Larkspur's cat-and-mouse maneuvers found themselves frenching a bullet to the carbines. 

Brightly colored plumes dazzled up the sky like Independence Day, as one by one, ejection seats and parachutes were jettisoned like so much parade confetti. 

It was pure Technicolor. 

Sadly, there was nothing for it. The nets were out, shot from the Dragonfly's swivel-mounted harpoon guns and filling the air all around, trawling for our heroines. Both the girls managed to take down one or two more each, armed with nothing but a rifle, a shotgun, a pocket dragoon, a steady aim and a good eye -- before being captured. 

"Aww, _Fuck Me On Hanukkah_ anyway..." 

TO BE CONTINUED... 

AUTHOR'S NOTES 

Howdy. 

Last time, I mentioned that anime and manga were "of particular interest to me;" indeed, it has been the closest to me in terms of creative inspiration for nearly twenty years, and it is these two that "flavor" this work the most, along with such related "Asian entertainment" faire as video fighting games and Hong Kong action films. 

I also mentioned that the "fantastic" Western was not an unknown concept to the Japanese, and provided examples. 

It is one of these examples that has given me cause for concern: _Trigun_, created by Yasuhiro Naito. 

I only recently discovered the anime within the last six months, and like most, I have become quite the fan. But even as I have enjoyed the series, I have felt a growing unease. Of all the other examples of the genre I have come across, it is Mr. Naito's vision that has come the closest to mine. It's uncanny, actually. I have stated that I realize that my work is derivative, and I have no real problem with that. However, the adventures of "Vash the Stampede" and friends are, to me, close enough in concept and execution to make me fear accusations of outright plagiarism! 

And so, I leave it up to you, dear reader; I have but one more installment completed in my modest epistle. After that, should I continue? Or are the similarities to _Trigun_ too distracting for future perusal? 

My name is Guy Clayton Brownlee, and I eagerly await your critiques. By all means, be honest, but please also be considerate in your responses. Love and peace. 

A Tip of the Stetson and a hearty "muchas gracias" goes out to all my friends who were charitable enough to let me borrow, beg, or just outright cheat them of a whole catalogue of cool ideas. 

THE INJURED PARTIES BEING: 

William Jordan; Edd Vick; Doug Anglin; Kat Nickell; Mary Miller; Jeff Blend; Pat Elrod; Hope Miller; Susan Moore; Catt Kingsrave-Ernstein; and Tim Collier. 

The Whole Shootin' Match is copyrighted @2000 Guy Clayton Brownlee; so give your lawyers a day off. Ya hear?! 


	3. Default Chapter Title

**COYOTE SISTERS**

**THE ADVENTURES OF LARKSPUR AND CALICO**

By: Guy C. Brownlee 

**PART THREE: HANG 'EM HIGH!**

_Taken from the journals of Professor Ebenezer Henway, AKA "Doc Rooster"; M.D.; D.D.S.; P.H.D.; historian; profound intellect; gadgeteer._

OK, I'll fess up. I myself have seen more than my share of those old pulp video horse operas; heck, I even owned a few, booted off the public library system. And no, I couldn't tell you how accurate they were in portraying that wild and woolly era, knowing Hollywood's penchant for sanitation, glamorization, and general exaggeration. 

I'm not quite _that_ old. But the resemblance between those testosterone-drenched shoot 'em ups and the actual everyday popular culture and social structure of the planet Railhead at large was, at the very least, compelling. 

It isn't so much a question of whether life was imitating art, but whether life was _consciously_, and with _forethought_, imitating art. 

As I just said, the images were certainly available to the public at anytime, through any number of sources, including the Thomas Faulkner Memorial Library, located downtown San Laredo. 

A lot of it I believe to be nothing more than a dumb but happy accident, the natural process of any young society, still in the throes of its colonization period. Still and still, one has to wonder where coincidence ends and artifice begins; you only have to look back to the mid-to-late 20th century and that damned twitch-vixen device we still carry around called television to see how mass media can influence everyday life: Coonskin caps. Prince Valiant haircuts. Bell bottoms. Free love. Disco. Keeping up with the Jones', the Clever's, the Brady's. Well, you get the picture. 

But this all sounds like there's some absolute definitive answer to this "was history repeating itself?" mystery -- and partners, there just _ain't_. Railhead was the way it was because it was the way it was -- do you think we would have dressed like that otherwise? 

_Oy!_

And that's all I got to say about that. 

* * * 

Larkspur had to admit, if nothing else, Poison Ashley certainly had a flair for the dramatic: chained and manacled by both their wrists and ankles, the wily vigilante and her long-suffering compadre, Calico, were currently spread-eagled and suspended over the airship's open hangar bay doors, each getting an eyeful of the wrong end of Angelside. 

Some distance below, one of those ill-tempered tundra thunderstorms was starting to throw fits, and through the occasional break in the clouds, the girls could see lightning strike the desert floor, illuminating the ground for miles in radius. 

Larkspur began to hiccup uncontrollably: high altitude, thin air, and all that. Calico rolled her eyes. 

"I *hic* _saw_ that!!" 

Meanwhile, the captain of _The Merry Widowmaker_ had sauntered onto the deck, her hands poised seductively on the hilts of her holstered twin 45s, her hips swaying to the rhythm of her stiletto heels clicking on the metal plate, elevating the meaning of the word "haughty" to damn near performance art. 

Her name was Ashley Angelique, known to all from folklore and the popular media as "Poison Ashley", and she could have been Larkspur's own very shadow, matching our heroine in nearly every physical showcase, save for Ashley's milk-chocolate skin, musky caramel-colored eyes, and straight, hip-length, cobalt-blue hair. 

Sartorially, Ashley played the pirate queen to excess, what with her signature spider-shaped earrings, zebra-striped headscarf, liquid gold swashshirt, and second skin black lycra tights; all ending with a pair of highly attention-getting, multi-strap-and-gold buckle covered, thigh-high (did I mention stiletto-heeled?) shiny shiny _shiny_ black leather boots... 

... The last of which Larkspur coveted rather badly, and had to forcibly mentally check herself from asking the pirate where she got them, and for how much. Poor girl. 

Meanwhile, the closest members of Ashley's crew reluctantly followed her on deck, each with their heads swung low. Among them was the sweet and shy, mountain-sized bookworm, Edison, ship's coxswain; the crotchety, pint-sized wiseman, "Shakes" Pierre, ship's cook; and the elegant, dark, and boot-to-the-head dangerous Hong Fei, Ashley's sometimes mentor, sometimes lover, undisputed master of martial arts, and ship's second-in-command. 

Larkspur looked to each of them with open affection, knowing that, whilst fiercely loyal to the pirate queen, many of the Widowmakers considered the vigilantes as comrades and allies, almost family. 

With a strut and a swagger, Ashley paced back and forth at the edge of the open hangar bay, casually tracing one delicate finger along the safety rail. "Ah, mes amis. It would appear I have you by ze small rabbits, non?" 

Larkspur's eyes narrowed, catlike, as she mentally growled, _I bet your ancestors came from Pittsburgh..._

Served up with equal portions of pure corn and relish, Ashley then tossed her hair back, crossed her arms, and regarded our heroines... if she had a mustache, she probably would have twirled it: "Let me see, now... should I dangle you in front of ze turbines and give your girlish locks a nice little buzzcut? Those coiffs are just _so_ Daisey-Mae... 

"Should I dip you into the clouds below and let ze sub-zero chill and ze lightning lick at your extremities like a crazed ferret? No, you would probably enjoy it... 

"I know! Why don't I just toss a couple of parachutes out, then you after, and see who wins, hmm?" 

Well, sir, this last little bon mot just about turned everybody within earshot whiter than a polar bear's ghost. 

Everybody, that is, except Larkspur and Calico. 

Calico feigned a rather exaggerated yawn and commented, "Oh, dear, somebody call Oscar Wilde, tell him to give up his day job!" 

Larkspur dually concurred, adding, "That line's so old *hic* it's got *hic hic* dinosaur sperm on its *hic* lips!" 

OK, so you had to have been there; point is, no one was paying any attention to Larkspur's hands and, more importantly, what she was doing with them. 

"By the way, Larkspur, stalwart companion, isn't this the part where you plead for my life, saying, 'It's _me_ you've got it in for! Leave my faithful sidekick out of this!'?" 

"Oh, yeah. 'It's _me_ *hic hic* you've got it in for *hic*! Leave Chuckles here *hic* out of this!' *Hic* By the way *hic*, why do _I_ always have to be the *hic hic* martyr, huh?" 

"I'm just a lowly sidekick. Tradition." 

"Thank *hic* _Gods_ there ain't a union!" 

Needless to mention, Poison Ashley's reaction to all this contrived flippancy was, well, more of the same. "So, you think to mock me, non? You seek to rattle, to unnerve, to discombobulate? You wish for me to slip up, to err, to make ze crucial mistake, by acting foolishly, by dropping my guard, playing ze ass! Eez that not so?!" 

It was one of those opportunities that only come along once or twice in a lifetime, one that, no matter what the consequences, had to be taken, a clarion call to arms, a veritable gift from the gods: the perfect straight line. 

"Ash *hic*, the only difference between you *hic* and a horse's patoote *hic* is that your hairlip needs trimming! *Hic*" 

It is hard to say, exactly, how or why no one else thought to check Larkspur's riding gloves for clandestine items or secret compartments, why the gloves weren't out and out removed. Theories abound, of course, the popular one being that they were purposefully overlooked by certain "_comrades and allies -- almost family_." Whatever the reason, the fact remains that, among other things, Larkspur was an expert lockpick, a holdover from her brief but lively outlaw days. 

Without a warning, Poison Ashley launched herself at Larkspur, spitting fire and hissing, with Larkspur herself just a'grinning like a goofball, giddy of her accomplishment to the point of foolishness. 

Ashley wasn't laughing, however, because just as she got all set to sink her claws into Larkspur and do some fancy irrigation, did she find herself hanging upside down, halfway out the hangar bay doors, clutching onto our heroine for dear life and bladder control. 

Larkspur's grin grew wide and pearly as Ashley's eyes finally met hers. "Why, if it ain't Mr. Ed! Can I have your autograph...?" 

It seems that Larkspur had worked loose both of her wrist manacles with her micro-picks and had happily waited until Ashley vaulted right smack into her before letting go. Mind you, it racked Larkspur's legs something fierce when she flipped over and the chains snapped taut; but, as she would later say, it was all worth it just to see the "birch eyeing the chainsaw" look on the pirate queen's face. Ashley was so beside herself she could've formed her own conga line. 

"You. Are. _MAD!!_" 

"Hey, _I'm_ not the one who catapulted herself over a two-mile drop just to get pissy!" Larkspur replied offhandedly. 

Her hiccups had by now mysteriously vanished, gone the way of Amelia Earhart and the dodo. Gone, too, was her goofball smile, replaced suddenly by something entirely more feral. It was a look that said unless something higher up the food chain happened along, Ashley was likely to be today's blue plate special. 

"Y'know, you really should have these more secured," Larkspur admonished, mock-sweetly. "They would've fallen _right_ _out_ of your holsters if'n I didn't catch them! Tsk!" 

Ashley's eyes popped open, wide and white as dinner plates, as the pirate queen realized instantly what the vigilante had done. "_Non!_ My babies!" 

Sure enough, Larkspur was cackling like a hyena and brandishing Ashley's own twin 45 automatics, "appropriated" during the vigilante's little stunt. Poison Ashley squirmed violently in a vain attempt to wrestle her signature weapons back from our heroine, while still latched on to her like ugly on a Democrat. 

Larkspur just ignored the pirate queen, holding the guns out before her (and well out of Ashley's reach) in honest admiration. "Wow... radiating pearl spiderweb design on the handle (verry striking!), with raised -- what, onyx? -- black widow icon, and, I believe, an honest-to-goddess ruby chip for the hourglass mark." 

Larkspur let out a low, appreciative whistle, then placed the two 45s snug against each of Ashley's by-now glistening temples. "Now be a sweetie and tell the boys to haul us up. My ankles are startin' to chafe..." 

Now, in speaking of The Dodo, that comical, affectionately remembered fowl of yore, let us once again pause to make the following observation: people is stupid. Even those that make the least mistakes tend to make the biggest ones when they do. It's called karmic balance. 

Case in point: what nobody at that moment yet noticed was, as the girls were being dutifully pulled up, did one of the many Dragonfly autogyros, supposedly secured in the hangar bay, start to slowly _roll forward_. 

It seems that, instead of attaching Larkspur's leg chains to the anchor posts that held the fighter's wheel chocks in place, some brain-cell donor mistakenly attached them to the wheel chocks _themselves_. This in itself would not be so bad, if not for the fact that the chains that usually connected said wheel chocks to said anchors were the ones currently attached to Larkspur's leg irons. 

Can you say "bag of hammers"? 

Meanwhile, using her own personalized slight of hand, Calico simply slipped from her own bonds and effortlessly swung over to the deck. The overhead chains were run from remote controlled gurneys, and clattered loudly against each other as she let them go. A little smile ghosted across her lips: _OK_, she thought, _maybe I am a showoff._

Down below, the pirate queen was the first to notice that something wasn't quite right. "Um, gentlemen, please to pardon your Queen's somewhat bold turn of phrase, but what the hell are you _doing_ up there?!" 

And still the chains grew more slack. 

"Uh, fellas, this isn't funny..." added Larkspur, who was by now pretty tired of playing cloud bait herself. 

Unfortunately, at this point, things just got all ten kinds of out of hand. 

Suddenly, the autogyro rolled free and slammed smack into the guardrail, and for one, terrifying moment, looked as if it were about to flip right over, its tail raised straight up. 

Needless to say, that got people's attention. 

"_Larkspur!_ Are you all right?" 

"I'm fine, Calico-sweetie, though I'm gonna have to do some tall explaining to the dry cleaners tomorrow!" 

Ashley, somehow still hanging on, looked as if she swallowed a pickled ostrich egg whole, chased down with buttermilk. 

Happily, the mighty Edison was the first on the case, and had muscled the fighter's tail-end back down, while Calico and the rest continued pulling Larkspur and the pirate queen up. 

Sadly, that's about when the guardrail snapped. 

* * * 

Much to their own surprise, Redd Rover and the Sierra Padre were not dead. 

However, considering their present circumstances, they were also understandably ambivalent about that. 

Imprisoned somewhere beneath Cathedral Station, in the bleak, grey-walled, fluorescent lit catacombs that were the forgotten train depot's even more forgotten maintenance tunnels, people -- the crews to at least six D-Class iron horses, along with their onboard families, no less -- were penned up tight along the corridors, each and every one sweating chihuahuas over their imminent fate. 

Among them, two were helping a third bring a fourth into the world -- and you don't have to guess too hard who those first two were, do you? 

"_Gads_, from one womb to another! What's your hurry?!" The Padre grouched, his massive hands navigating the pretty little mother-to-be's south forty (a conductor's visiting granddaughter, unfortunately in the wrong place and _definitely_ at the wrong time). Copper tressed, her head was nestled squarely in Redd's lap. _Nothing new there_, thought Otis, irresistibly barking a quick laugh. Redd, meanwhile, was looking a mite peaked. 

-- As were the posted sentries, our heroes' captors, hired hands to the loathsome Yellowjack and Belladonna Dupree. 

Only slightly the more worse for wear, the given reason for Redd and Otis' continued existence was their collected value as possible "getaway insurance." Hostages. Nothing less. Nothing more. 

Meanwhile, there was the little matter at hand: "I said '_push_,' not kick!" 

"Ew, what _is_ that stuff?" 

"I said '_breathe_,' not bay like a common jackal!" 

"I mean, there's _gallons_ of it!" 

"Madame, kindly let go of my hair!" 

"It looks kinda like -- Oh, Gawd!" 

"I have little follicle left, and would like to hold on to it as a nostalgic keepsake!" 

"I think I'm gonna -- 

"I think I'm gonna --" 

Well, you get the picture. Probably too well. Heh. 

* * * 

Maggie Roosevelt didn't know which she liked the least: dirty politics; bureaucratic red tape; being shot at by a madman; or being thrown out of a 78-story window. 

Upon (admittedly brief) reflection, she decided the first three were the unfortunate but standard occupational hazards of being Planetary Governor. _Lawyers_, on the other hand, got thrown out of windows. Either way, she didn't like it. It set a bad precedent. 

_Gads! I hate heights!_ agreed San Laredo Mayor Edd Many Pages, who was also, by the way, thrown from that very same 78th floor window. 

"Why, _hidee_ Governor, Mayor; thankee fer dropin' by! Issus a social call?" quipped Merc, in his best crotchety old trailhand manner. 

Of which he was neither, not really officially a "he" at that -- M.E.R.C. -- standing for Multitask Exoskeleton Reconnaissance and Combat: an artificially intelligent, heavy armored battlesuit, one of the more elaborate, symbiotic attachments of the legendary shootist, the Clockwork Assassin. 

With only a minimum of drag to his afterburners, Merc happily snatched the pair from their rapid descent, holding them tight to his broad, teflon-bonded chestplate, himself cackling gleefully, prideful of his daring rescue. 

Despite herself, the Governor squirmed fitfully. You see, Merc was also a known "accomplice" of the Clockwork Assassin, and this left poor Maggie downright _confused_, as it was the bionic sharpshooter that rudely tossed her and Mayor Many Pages out the window in the first place! 

Merc was quick to put her at ease. "Now, now, Missy, don't get yourself all coiled up like that. The bosslady jes' wanted to get you two out of harm's way pronto like, and cuz she was lookin' fer trouble, I happened to be handy!" 

"But, but how did you know?" 

"We share a direct link, whatchacall... _a tight-band transmission_. When she wants it, I can see what she sees, I can hear what she hears: why, I can receive orders without her having to breathe a dag-burned word!" 

For a moment, the Governor seemed to forget that she was holding a conversation with, for all intents and purposes, a Giant Robot. Indeed, she no longer seemed to notice that they were still about fifty floors up (the _Mayor_, however...). 

"Is she really Brett Donahue's daughter?" 

"It saddens me mightily to say so. That sidewinder!" 

Maggie thought about this. "There is no love lost between me and that fascist pig Donahue. But tell me: why would she want to kill her own father?" 

"You mean you don't know...?! Well, you wouldn't, now would you..." 

The wide, salmon-colored marble tiles of the MacMurtry Plaza gently rose up to greet them as Merc executed a passable tenderfoot landing. 

Mayor Many Pages politely excused himself to the nearest perfectly manicured row of bushes, as Merc and the Governor quietly regarded each other. 

The battlesuit was certainly impressive enough, vaguely humanoid in shape, as porcelain-white as its mistress, and standing a goodly twenty feet tall. 

"Governor, Cactus Brett's the one that made Doll more like me than you! I'm tellin' you, it was him all along!" 

Maggie's very being balked at the idea. "_What?!_" It was all too unthinkable, even for Brett Donahue! 

"It's true! Why, she was perfectly pink and whole when he needed a guinea pig to show off his nanotech upgrades to the company investors, may the Good Lord show mercy on them all!" For one, surreal moment, it sounded as if the battlesuit was near... tears? "She was only fifteen. _Fifteen!_ She ain't never even kissed a boy yet! Or gone dancin'! Or, or --" 

Suddenly, it seemed as though the blue sky itself was rent asunder as a series of explosions ripped throughout the entirety of the top half of the MacMurtry Building, blooming forth like phoenix roses one after another. 

"Aw, hell!" was all Edd and Maggie could hear Merc say, his thrusters working overtime, speeding to his mistress' aid. And just like that, he was gone. 

The Mayor shielded his eyes, looking up; most of his composure had returned, if little of his coloring. 

A chorus of sirens -- police, fire and ambulance, swelled in the distance. 

"I believe him, Edward." 

"For what it's worth, so do I. But it's not admissible in court. She could have been lying to him, or he could have been programmed to believe her, or simply act like he believed. Automatons are just not reliable character witnesses, I'm afraid. And there is the little fact that she is a paid assassin, a common mercenary, a glorified murderess, operating outside the law!" 

Maggie was a lost little girl just then. She knew Edd was right. 

"Then what should we do, Edward? What should _I_ do?" 

After a long, awkward moment, Edd walked over to Maggie, put his arm around her shoulder and said quietly, "Nothing. Ignore it. It is beneath your station. A local matter..." But the Mayor thought, _Just pray the right 'bad guy' gets away..._" 

And that's just what they did. 

* * * 

Cactus Brett Donahue's once showplace office was now nothing more than a charred-out husk. All the walls were burned away, all the windows completely blasted out, everything within literally turned to ash, its steel and concrete skeleton exposed and bleached as white as human bones. 

All that remained was Doll. 

And Brett, but not really. 

It didn't take long for Doll to realize that her Papa was naught but a "heavylight" hologram -- a manmade illusion that could actually manipulate lightweight solids for short amounts of time. It was the same basic cutting-edge technology that had made Doll's "disappearing act" possible. 

Brett had to laugh at the irony: he had pretended to be here while all the while she had pretended not to be. It was all probably symbolic of something, but just _what_ escaped him for the moment. 

Doll fell to her knees, trembling. "Where are you, Daddy?" she whimpered, child-like. Her ammo spent, her strength gone, steam vented from her pores in the aftermath. "Where are you, you _bastard?!_" 

She was near hysterics, and she knew it; she hated it, she didn't want to give her father the satisfaction, but ultimately, she didn't care, just didn't give a damn. She was grieving, she was anguished, and it felt _human_. She felt _real_. 

"Tsk. Is that any way to talk to your loving father? I swear!" 

She knew he was goading her. She still didn't care. 

"_You never loved me!_ You never thought of me twice! All you ever treated me was like I was your wife's little trained _pet!_ A little yapping lapdog! 

"_'Honey, can't you shut her up? She's giving me a migraine!'_

"_'Dearest, can't we put her into a boarding school? I've got clients to entertain and holiday season is coming up!'_

"I was nothing but an _inconvenience_ to you! An inconvenience, that is, until you ran out of willing guinea pigs! Then I was _real_ handy, wasn't I? A sweet, trusting test subject for your twisted corporate schemes! Your own _daughter_! How _could_ you?!" 

A look of genuine bewilderment seemed to cross Brett's features just then. It was as if he honestly could not comprehend Doll's resentment. 

Loser. 

"I don't understand. You will never again fall ill; you will never age; never die; you can access whole information systems in a thought; you are more powerful than a tank; you will never have to cow to any _man_..." 

"I will never be able to make love to him either!!" 

"Tsk. It always has to come back to _sex_, doesn't it? Youth and its priorities!" 

If Doll could, she would have joyfully destroyed reality itself, all form, all thought, just to be good and rid of Cactus Brett Donahue. 

Instead, she got real calm. Dead calm. 

This surprised no one more than her. She didn't have to find the strength to rise; it was there. 

And even with her link to her symbiont severed, she didn't have to turn to see him hovering just outside behind her. In an almost monotone voice she commanded, "Merc, sir, track and pinpoint holograph downlink. Cut feed." 

"Yes'm. On it." 

Typically, Brett tried to have the last word: "You'll never get away now. The area has got to be simply swarming with police choppers. I tell you what... if you come back with me, I'll hide you where they'll never find you. All will be forgiven, and we'll all live happily ever --" 

Suddenly, there was a brief high-pitched whine, a small shower of sparks from the center of the ceiling, and then Cactus Brett Donahue was simply no longer there. 

Doll let out a soul-throttling sigh. _If only it were that simple_, she thought. 

Doll then walked over to approximately where Brett's polished yacht-sized darkwood desk had been. When she came to a certain spot, she paused and gave the floor a swift boot. Sure enough, a small trapdoor gave way into brittle pieces, like the pages of an ancient diary. 

She looked down intensely into that dark abyss, but said, "Merc, open up. We're getting out of here." 

Immediately, Merc's codbrace disengaged with a hiss, followed by a series of hull latches popping, ending with the chest plate swinging up and out. Inside was revealed a cocoon of padded celfoam, a pilot's harness, a neural link cord and jack, and a bank of gauges and L.E.D.S. set into the inside chest plate. 

The closest thing Doll had to a home. 

Doll did not so much throw herself into the cockpit as she seemed to collapse into it, as if resigning herself to fate. Gently, Merc sealed himself around her and plotted a course to their current desert hideout. 

-- Or would have, had the sky not been filled with the city's finest; police-issue Dragonflies and military surplus attack choppers. 

Tomahawk MRs and Airwolfs surrounded Merc and Doll like bees to honey. "_This is the police. Stand down your vehicle, repeat, stand down your vehicle! Slowly descend and land your battlesuit on the plaza below, and come out with your hands up! You have thirty seconds to comply!_" 

__

__Doll weighed in her options at lightning-fast speed: fight or flee? Right then she was sick of battle, absolutely sick of it; she had been in combat mode all day and it got her less than nowhere. 

That left only one course of action: "Merc, emergency orbital escape velocity, _now!_" 

The exosuit did not have to be told twice. "Gotcha!" 

There was a brief, deafening roar as Merc's engines instantly kicked in full tilt overdrive; a maneuver that was truly used only in emergencies, as it tended to burn out the exosuit's navigation motherboard like so much kindling. 

Fortunately or not, however, it was rendered a moot point... 

Suddenly, there was a loud "phwoomf!", like the sound of a tinderbox being lit, and Merc's thrusters inexplicably powered down. Next, a brilliant light, the color of robin's egg blue, surrounded the exosuit, as one by one, its weapons systems went off-line. Finally, a mysterious, rather pronounced, floral scent engulfed the cockpit. An irritatingly familiar floral scent. 

Doll groaned inwardly and massaged the bridge of her nose. _Not again_, she thought wearily. _Not now_. 

She did not even need to look as the holographic heads-up display snapped on, to know who's visage would be dancing there. 

More doggedly persistent than the local constabulary, more annoying than a root canal, it was..._her_. 

"Hold it _right_ there, diesel-breath! You and little Miss Pinocchio are going _nowhere!_" 

She was a mere wisp of a girl, fourteen if she was a day, and full-blooded Svaha; dark-skinned, raven tressed, and, to Doll's mind, too obscenely physically attractive for anyone that young. She was just... so... _nubile_. Doll disliked her with an envy bordering on the passionate. 

Clad only in a tan colored soft leather halter, a matching skirt that was basically a cross between a g-string and a loincloth, and a pair of knee-high lace-up moccasins, she damn near made pedophiles of every single male that came within whiffing range. Adorned with blue flowers, her hair was drawn back in two, impossibly long pigtails, and she wore a tan leather headband, with the Svaha symbols for "courage" and "beauty" worked in. 

All of which was bad enough, but when Doll considered the fact that the young'un was probably the most powerful psionic this side of the Dupree twins, it was downright intolerable. 

Hovering some 65 stories above street level, she was in one of those "noble savage" battle poses she was known for. Eyes like black flames raging, she clutched her totem staff before her, the focus point for all her incredible power. 

Determined. Ernest. Sincere. And blissfully unaware that she was giving a considerable number of San Laredo's finest an impressive nose bleed. 

Doll sighed. Next would come "The Speech"; there was _always_ "The Speech." Doll found herself silently reciting it by memory: 

"You desecrate the Heavens. You dishonor the Earth. You bring shame upon your very tribe. I embody the wisdom of the Fathers, and the love of the One True Mother. I am the lovely shaman warrior, _PRINCESS BLUEBONNET!_ And in the name of all the Svaha nations, I will vanquish you!!" 

_'Vanquish'_, Doll mused drolly. _Now there's a word that comes up in everyday conversation_. 

... And a long day just got longer... 

**TO BE CONTINUED... **

AUTHOR'S NOTES 

I have a confession to make. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a "Wild West" aficionado, at least in terms of actual historical reality. While it can be debated that we are no less a violent or repressed a society than back then, it is without a doubt that the overall quality of life has since improved over a tenfold. Indeed, I simply cannot find it within myself to feel nostalgic for any period in American history that did not include indoor plumbing or air conditioning. Especially air conditioning. I live in Texas. 

However, as an exotic backdrop for high adventure and other flights of fancy, the "Wild West" (roughly anytime, 19th century, roughly anywhere, the U.S.) will do just fine. 

It is also acceptable as a framework for character drama, as long as the proceedings don't get too terribly grim. Mind you, I believe "Lonesome Dove" is the closest to a "straight" literary Western I have read, as most of my exposure to the genre has been through the big screen and the small. And even then, my idea of a "straight" Western may stretch the common definition of such. The screwball comedy, the crime caper, the social satire, the superhero adventure, the martial arts adventure, even the sex farce and the musical, all have been the key ingredients to many of the cinema Westerns I have enjoyed. 

My highest recommendations: 

_Support Your Local Sheriff_

_Support Your Local Gunfighter_

_My Name is Nobody_

_Silverado_

_The Quick and the Dead_

_Zorro_

_Maverick (the movie and both the 50's and 80's TV shows!)_

_Cat Ballou_

_Sunset _

_Paint Your Wagon_

_Shanghai Noon_

Just about any John Wayne Western. 

Just about any Spaghetti Western directed by Sergio Leone. 

If you are like me, and have never felt like the "straight" Western was your thing, I believe you will find these titles diverting enough (please note that while some of the above are comedies, or use humor to a great degree, none are out-and-out parodies as in the "Blazing Saddles school. Hopefully not to sound too snobbish, I have just never cared for the "Police Squad!/South Park type of comedy. I "get it", I just don't like it.). 

My name is Guy C. Brownlee and I eagerly await your critiques. By all means be honest, but please also be considerate in your responses. 

_Yadda yadda_, everything copyrighted @2000, Guy Clayton Brownlee, _yadda yadda_. 

You've hurt my donkey's feelings. I suggest you apologize. 


End file.
